TMI: Don't say I didn't warn you.

Stop reading now if you don't want to read about the perils of being a woman in her mid (late?) 30's.
Warning #2. My name is Shannon and I am a chronic over-sharer. Be grateful this post contains NO photo documentation.
Sigh. Woke up this morning to an abso-smurf-ly gorgeous day. Blue skies, perfect spring temperatures, the sun smiling down on me. Not going into work today. What more could a girl ask for? Then I remembered: today was the dreaded annual exam day. Now, I don't dread this like I dread going to the dentist; I just really don't look forward to it. It is not my idea of fun, but I get it: This is part of taking care of me, so I can grin and bare it. (I purposely misspelled bear/bare. Get it?)
Part of the tragedy of the dreaded annual exam is that my doctor is an attractive man. He's not my type, but I can look at him and say, "Yes, he is a good-looking guy." For some reason, it makes the exam a little more cringe-worthy.
So, I get there today, take a deep breath, give myself a little pep talk and head in. I get weighed and then go into the room and answer some questions for the nurse. Then I put on that gorgeous hospital gown ("Opening in the back, please.") and cover up with the paper "blanket." And I wait. And wait, all the while thinking about how I am going to distract myself and get through it.
My doctor comes in and asks the standard questions. I complain about getting old. He asks what I mean, and I tell him that J and I have talked about how it's harder to recover now, meaning in terms of exercise. My doctor thinks that I am talking about a long night of drinking and explains to me how to modify my diet in order to not feel so hung over. I am sure this has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the last two times I ran into him, we were in a bar.
We finish with the small talk and he gets the nurse for the fun part. (Sarcasm font.) The first part of the exam goes off without a hitch, but then it's time to put the feet up in stirrups. I get the heels in the stirrups and then scoot my bottom down to the edge of the table when it hits me: Cramp.
I start babbling, "Cramp, cramp, cramp," and my doctor and the nurse start massaging my calf. But it's not in my calf, it's in my hamstring, and the thought of them massaging my hamstring is just too much to bear. I decide to hop down off of the table to stretch it, and then the other hamstring cramps up too. They are all worried about me falling off the table, and all I want to do is hop down, bend over and touch my freaking toes and stretch those babies out.
And then I remember that there's nothing covering my rear end. So, I hobble past them, over by the closed door, turn my back to the door and bend over and stick my bare butt out in the open and stretch. And it was heaven, except for the awkwardness of my bare arse sticking out.
At no point during this episode did I make eye contact. And that's how I managed to not die of embarrassment.